


you're safe, in bed

by toomuchplor



Series: Eamespreg [10]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Mpreg, Pregnancy Kink, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:29:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Insatiable’ doesn’t even begin to touch it, not the fleeting finest <i>edge</i> of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're safe, in bed

**Author's Note:**

> Written as chat smut to Xen some time ago but I had to wait until everyone was caught up on babies 5/6 before I could post. Self-indulgent as everything else in the series. /o\

The third night Arthur wakes Eames at three in the morning, pressing his very nice but extremely insistent cock into the side of Eames' thigh, stroking Eames' hair and murmuring filthy things in Eames' ear — well.

"Mm," says Eames, trying and failing to blink his eyes open, "darling, you're very sexy and that's a perfectly lovely erection but I've got to manage all day tomorrow with four small boys. I'm four months gone, too, you know."

Arthur huffs out a petulant small sigh and pushes his hips closer anyway, nosing Eames' earlobe. "Won't take long," he says.

Eames rolls away from Arthur, which Arthur takes as acquiescence judging by the long thigh he throws over Eames' hips, the grip he closes on Eames' waist; but Eames has another agenda. He fumbles in the bedside table and blindly closes his hand around the bottle of lube. He means to pass it to Arthur but he's so bloody tired and off his head with it that he probably half-throws it over his shoulder instead.

"Ow," says Arthur. Dead hit, yes. Eames can feel Arthur fumble for the bottle even as Eames himself is collapsing back into dearly sought slumber, burrowing into his pillow. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Eames says, though he barely moves his tongue or lips to say it and it comes out more like “ _Ssseelee_."

Arthur rolls away. The headboard rattles quietly as he sits up against it. Eames hears, as though from far away, the low deep tide of his own breath, the click of the bottle's cap, the faint shush of fabric as Arthur tugs at his pyjama bottoms. Then: nothing.

"Do we still own porn?" Arthur asks.

"We have wifi," Eames says, cheerfully as he can while half-asleep. "You have an unlocked iPad." _And stop acting like I've never caught you browsing those filthy tumblr blogs,_ Eames doesn't add, more because he's too fatigued than out of any concern for Arthur's dignity.

It's soothing, in a weird way, drifting on the edge of sleep with the background sounds of Arthur getting himself off: wet slide of fist to cock, yes, and foreshortened breaths, and even the soft sure tap of fingers against glass on the iPad screen, the way his pace ticks up when he finds something that catches his interest for a minute. Eames has been sucking him off fast and sloppy the last two nights, which didn't garner any complaints, but it's clear Arthur's taking his time now; whether out of desire or some passive aggressive show, Eames can't be bothered to discern.

Arthur's truly _edging_ himself, in fact: working up to the point of coming and then stopping with heaving breath, holding still. Eames isn't really awake anymore, but he can't properly sleep either, not with this tiny damnable part of his brain still faintly interested in Arthur's activities. Eames drops a little lower into unconsciousness in the few breaths after Arthur stops himself, only to be dredged back up when Arthur's hand gets going steady and fast once more.

But that's its own kind of soothing repetitive motion, and soon Eames is drifting on the swells of Arthur's slow surges of lust, floating further and further asea with Arthur himself back on shore, cock in hand. 

It's the break in the pattern, then, that stirs Eames back up: he blinks his eyes open, confused, and realizes that Arthur's let himself go at last. Eames is firmly back in the dark bedroom, in the present moment, and he can hear Arthur coming in soft hurt-sounding puffs of air, slick and hard. For the briefest of moments Eames almost regrets his decision to sleep through it; the back of his throat feels strange and lonely. 

Eames keeps his eyes closed and his body still, but he's clear-headed now. It's easy to interpret the wiggles of the mattress and the little sounds from behind him, to work out what Arthur's doing: leaning over and snagging a tissue off the bedside table on his side, dabbing himself off, wiping his hands. Balling up the tissue and flicking it aside. Sighing at the thought that one of the boys might happen upon it before they're awake enough to stop him, and heaving himself up and out of bed to dispose of it properly in their en suite toilet.

Eames only realizes he's rolled onto his back to watch Arthur when Arthur's figure reappears in the bathroom doorway. "Sorry," says Arthur, "was I too loud?"

"No," says Eames. "Time's it?"

"I don't know, three-something," says Arthur. "Four-something."

Arthur's the one with a thing for pregnancy; he's unabashed about it, has been since Eames was pregnant with Bert. Arthur likes Eames round, and heavy, and ripe. Arthur gets off on it, especially on the knowledge that he got Eames that way. Eames himself tolerates pregnancy as a necessary evil on the road to getting a newborn baby, its discomforts and inconveniences mitigated somewhat by Arthur's appreciation for Eames' body.

So it's been — weird, really — watching _Arthur's_ body start to change, albeit only a little. Arthur's belly’s smaller than Eames’, yet, though he's technically further along. Arthur's barely showing, and he's stopped being sick, and if it weren't for these bouts of midnight lust Eames would hardly know Arthur was — "Come here," he says, scrabbling for Arthur as Arthur gets back under the covers, "come here, I miss you."

"You could have missed me five minutes earlier," Arthur grumbles, but Eames can hear his smile. He settles against Eames' shoulder and does a habitual sweep of Eames' torso: belly, side, breasts. Stops there and strokes a thumb over Eames' nipple, does a little squeeze. Otis doesn't nurse much anymore; Eames hardly has any milk, but Arthur's touch never fails to make him feel that phantom tingling let-down.

"What's this," says Eames, when he wriggles closer to Arthur, hip to hip and belly to belly. "Didn't you"—

—"Yeah, I did," Arthur says. "It's okay, it gets like this. Hormones, I guess." He reaches between them and adjusts his cock, hard and warm, so it's resting more easily against his stomach. "It'll go down."

"Mine doesn't do that," Eames says, maybe a little petulantly. "Not until later on, anyway."

"Lucky me," says Arthur through a yawn.

"Can you come again?" Eames asks, interest properly piqued now.

"Dunno," says Arthur. "Once seemed like enough."

"Let's see," says Eames, pushing Arthur onto his back.

"What happened to four kids in the morning and being too pregnant to fuck," Arthur asks, going anyway, lifting his hips to help Eames get his pants down around his thighs.

"Well, I didn't know your cock learned a new trick," Eames says. "At your advanced age, no less."

"Wow," says Arthur, "you're lucky I'm so easy."

Arthur's got excellent aim, usually, so Eames can only assume he's being petty when he drops the lube bottle on Eames' bobbing head. "Fingers or cock?" asks Eames, coming up for air and not bothering to rise to Arthur's bait. "What do you fancy?"

"Cock," says Arthur, "better do it while we can, after all."

"Ah, we're not so bad as all that, yet," Eames says, but a couple of minutes later he's looking down at the intersection of their bodies, the heavy swell of his stomach obscuring the view as it comes to rest against Arthur's own modest curve, and he's forced to admit that they may not have many weeks of this left. "I'll have to turn you over, or you'll have to do me," Eames tells him, "you and your svelte horrible, oh, god, Arthur. We really need to do this more often, you're — perfect, yes."

Changing or not, Arthur's body knows Eames'; the little upward tic of his hips is exactly right to guide Eames in. They've both been used to this, to Arthur as the fixed point that Eames reshapes around, and Eames is more thrown than he likes to admit by the idea that Arthur's going to be different. Arthur's already different, if only a little — Eames' sweet lean long Arthur with his bandy arms and hard runner's calves and narrow waist and flat chest. Arthur, who holds Eames by the jaw and kisses him as though he sees Eames' faint worry, wants to smooth it over. "There, yeah, right there," he murmurs against Eames' mouth, "god, s'good. It doesn't feel like this, usually, when you fuck me after I come."

"Because you're going to come again," Eames tells him, determined now. He can almost forget that he's a little ungainly when they're lying like this, face to face with Arthur's thighs closed around Eames' sides, Eames' cock deep inside Arthur. Arthur's cock is trapped between them and Eames will have to shift back so one of them can touch it, but for the moment he's content to work Arthur up with this roll of hips, this slick practiced fuck.

"What's it like," Arthur says, swallowing fitfully, digging fingers into Eames' shoulders, "does it hurt, coming dry? It always seems like it might hurt, but you like it anyway."

"It doesn't hurt," Eames promises, "it's just — deep. You feel it less in your bollocks and more in your stomach, somehow, it's — well, see for yourself," and he pushes up on his palms and settles back a little. "Go on, come for me."

Arthur reaches into the narrow space between them and takes his cock in hand, starts working hesitantly in rhythm with Eames' thrusts. There's a little worried line between his brows; he doesn't really think this is going to happen, just as he didn't quite accept that he was pregnant when the test came up with two lines instead of one. Like gestation was Eames’ particular speciality, as much so as forgery once was, and it wasn’t a biological function so much as a thrilling hustle Eames could pull off with aplomb, again and again.

"That's it, it's just the same as ever," Eames says. "You'll feel it build, yeah? Getting close?"

Arthur shakes his head minutely, not quite a negative answer so much as a denial of what he's obviously feeling, with his breath getting clipped and little moans escaping him now.

"You're so close," Eames says, "Arthur, you're almost there, darling."

"I can't," says Arthur, working his hand faster, "this is so — it feels so weird, I — fuck, Eames, oh, I don't know what I'm doing here."

"You're coming," says Eames, "any second now." He shifts back a little further and — yes, better angle, better leverage, even if Eames' stamina is for shit at the moment. It doesn't matter, Arthur's on the brink though he doesn't seem to know it. The headboard thumps the wall and Arthur arches his shoulders into the mattress, seeking purchase, and then makes a delightful series of too-loud-for-nighttime noises the likes of which Eames hasn't heard outside a hotel room for years. He's got his eyes squeezed shut tight, untrusting, and all at once he stills; the free hand that was gripping Eames' hip roughly pinches in and then opens like a flower unfolding. 

Between them, Arthur's cock jerks in his fist; doesn't spill. Arthur's arse clenches around Eames' length, more than it usually does, and Eames is caught unawares when his own orgasm sweeps through, prolonged and blissful.

It's 4:24, Eames sees by the green digital clock when he rolls to the side, panting. Fuck. The kids'll be up in two hours, two and a half if they're lucky. Or any second now, if they heard the din Arthur was making, god forbid. Eames listens to his heart thumping frantically, cranes to hear over it for the first sign of trouble: a small bare foot on hardwood, a feeble wail of distress. There's nothing, and nothing, and Arthur lets go of a relieved peal of laughter, sprawled over the other side of the mattress.

"You're going to be a disaster at work," says Eames. "You should take a personal day."

"I'll be fine," says Arthur, predictably. "Light schedule. No meetings."

Eames forces himself out of bed, goes to the loo to clean up. He flicks on the light and squints at himself in the mirror: stubbled and mussed and flushed, tits just starting to perk up with the overnight supply of milk, pyjama bottoms scooped low under the shockingly obvious swing of baby. It's a good job Arthur finds him sexy, still, Eames thinks for the millionth time. He feels a wreck, most of the time.

Eames gets back to bed more by memory than sight, his eyes too dazzled by the bathroom light to be useful in the dark now. He settles under the covers and just has time to think that he might drop right off before he notices that Arthur's not asleep yet.

"This is like a viagra cautionary tale," Arthur says ruefully.

"Ignore it and it'll go away," Eames advises, though he's impressed in spite of himself.

"I sort of want to know if I can go again," Arthur says, stroking himself slowly.

"Wifi," grunts Eames. "iPad. Lube. Don't wake me."

Arthur snorts and reaches over to pat Eames' hair. "Thanks for the fuck, though."

"You should take a personal day," Eames says. "Next week, maybe."

"I'm totally fine," Arthur says.

"But we could get a sitter," says Eames, "and a room at the Fairmont."

"Oh," says Arthur. "Yeah, okay."


End file.
